Tear You Apart
by lotus-brody
Summary: Peter shows up at Charley's apartment after dusk, but Peter isn't really himself anymore. Written for the Fright Night kinkmeme prompt Dark!Peter/Charley, Years Down the Road. Full summary within.


A/N: Written for the kinkmeme prompt: "Dark!Peter/Charley - Years down the road. Years after the incident with Jerry, Peter, Charley and Amy have all gone their separate ways. Charley's fairly well adjusted with his life, living single, all that jazz. Then one day Peter shows up at dusk, said he looked him up. For old times sake, Charley invites him in, but Peter's not really Peter anymore. One of Jerry's friends got to him. Something human inside still needs Charley, but it's almost all gone, and Charley starts to realize that something's really wrong with his old friend."

Pairing: Peter/Charley

Warnings: Slash, blood, dark!Peter, Charley!Whump, amongst other things.

-NOT DUBCON OR NONCON! I don't write that stuff.-

Please review if you like it, I know there are Peter/Charley fans out here somewhere. If you don't like the pairing or slash, the figurative door can be found with the back button.

+o+o+

He has gone a long way to find him. They haven't spoken in over a year, besides e-mails, and what good are they? There's little truth in them, and they only serve to perpetuate a lie in the end. That's all letters are - snippets and snapshots. No one ever says their whole story online, just the parts they want you to see, and he's learned all about that. But it isn't that which brings him here to this street, staring up at the building before him. It's that urge he's got. There is always that pull in his gut, something hot and demanding, reminding him what he's done. Reminding him that Charley had saved him, once. He knows it isn't going to happen again, it's too late to happen again, but the thought is still there.

He takes a long, deep breath. Smells the hot, humid air. It reeks of people and sour garbage and asphalt. It smells like stone and baking pavement and slow decay. It wasn't the scent of Nevada that he was used to, but cities always smelled the same, regardless of where he stood. The sun is starting to set, and he watches it from the dim mouth of an alley. The shadows are like a dark safety net, stretching further and further from where he stands.

Traffic and people are loud as New York rushes by him as uncaring as he remembers it, a beehive of activity. Only in a beehive you felt everyone, every little thought in your head belonged to everyone else, and you were just a force, doing what the queen bee demanded. These people were cut off, separate, dark and alone. They didn't give a fuck. Didn't know enough to find the queen, to cut off its head, and do their own thing for once. They just went about, unaware that they were being used by anything at all.

He glances around at the sidewalks. No one is near, no one is looking at him. He's just another tall, skinny freak wearing an old t-shirt and jeans. He is nothing anyone would want to pay attention to.

The shadows are stretching, the sun's almost gone. Feeling safe, he leaves the alley and, skirting along the edge of the building into shaded areas lit with electric light, he approaches the door to the massive mansion block he'd been watching the past few days. His boots click on the pavement as he makes for the purple awning marking the entrance.

He walks past the plate glass windows as quick as he can, and lets himself inside. There is no doorman, just a long list of names on a steel plate with little buttons next to each one. He runs one finger down the nameplates, feeling the little grooves under the pad of his finger. It stops on one name, the most important name in his life, scrawled in messy writing. He could turn back, leave. Keep him safe, healthy. But he can't hold back, not anymore. The need is like venom burning under his skin.

He lets out a slow breath, his finger ghosts to the black button beside it and he pushes.

There is silence a moment as he waits, before a voice drifts out of the speaker grille. A voice that's a bit geeky, unconfident, shy.

_"Hello? If this is another one of those guys pushing those Watchtower mags get lost, because I'm really not interested."_

He smiles. No, he _grins _at the sound of his voice. It's just like he remembers.

"It's an old friend," he says. "You remember me, don't you?"

There's a pause. _"Peter?"_

"One and only."

_"Shit, man! Come on up!"_

The door buzzes as the lock mechanism clicks open. Peter lets himself in. The lobby smells fresher, like shampoo and carpet with a hint of chlorine from some unseen pool, and the air conditioning is running. He walks past the rows of golden mailboxes, the overstuffed chairs and the magazine rack, and finds the lifts.

He thumbs the button for up, and looks back and forth. He's alone. There's a reflective mirror by the door marked "STAIRS" in red peeling letters. He looks away, the lift dings, and the door slides open before him. There's a woman inside, small, meek, Asian. He smiles at her as he walks past, and she walks on as quick as she can, her long silky black hair flowing behind her. Peter can smell apples from her wake. Her fear is evident. He wants to follow her, to soothe her fears a little, but he's come with a greater purpose.

He presses the button marked "11," and the lift begins to rise. The doors slide open with a pleasant ding, and he steps into the hall. This place is less fragrant than the lobby. The green carpet is a bit threadbare, and the mingling scents of other people's lives seem to collide here. He turns and walks down the hall a little way, until he finds door number 5. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. Some tiny little piece of his mind tells him to run away, to _leave him alone, just leave him alone please_GOD! But that voice has gotten so quiet of late it is barely more than the softest whisper. He raises his hand and knocks on the door.

Then came the sound of footsteps, and the door opens and there he is. He's grown up. It's been five years since they first met, and now he's twenty-three and filled out. He looks like the man he'll be for the rest of his life. There's still something of what he looked like when Peter first met him, though. Something innocent, and wholesome, and so Charley it makes him smile.

"Hello, Charley," he says.

"Jesus, _Peter!_" Charley throws himself over the threshold, his arms wrap around Peter, and the two of them hug. "It's been almost a year!"

"Something like that, yeah," says Peter, letting him go. Charley just stands there in front of him, his hands still touching Peter's arms like he's afraid if he blinks Peter will disappear, and maybe he will.

"Jesus, come in! Come in!" he says, and turns around.

The flat is small but nice. There's a tiny living room with a couch crammed in, and a desk with his computer on it. The kitchen is so tiny Peter's amazed more than one person can get inside, and the dining room has a table wedged in the corner. Peter spares a glance down the hall to where the bathroom and bedroom must be, and follows Charley into the kitchen.

Charley is digging through the refrigerator.

"Hungry?" Charley asks. "We can order pizza, since I don't have much."

"I already ate," says Peter, and he smiles with the thought.

"I've got beer. Wait, you don't like beer. Um... ah! Look, here's some bourbon. Do you like Beam?"

"Sure," says Peter.

Charley pulls out a bottle of Sam Adams, and the bottle of bourbon. He pours a two-fingered glass of the liquor over ice, and hands it to him. Peter takes it, and watches as Charley pops off the cap with a hiss, and he takes a sip of his beer. He smiles at Peter, fingering the bottle.

"So, how'd you find me?" asks Charley, walking into the living room.

Peter follows him. He's looking around the flat. It's a very Charley sort of place, neat and tidy and modern, filled with little bits of geeky paraphernalia that he always loved so much. Peter even recognizes a few gifts he's given Charley over the years - a 'sonic' pen, a model of the Ghostbusters car.

"Well, you told me you were living in New York now. I called your mom up, said I was going to be in town, and asked for your address," says Peter, looking at his bookshelves. It's a mixture of comic books, graphic novels, and textbooks. "So, out in the real world now, eh? Working for a living, breaking hearts," Peter turns to look at Charley when he says that, to gauge his reaction.

"Single right now. And I'm an IT guy. Not as cool as it sounds. What about you? I saw in the papers you stopped doing your big show."

"Moved on," says Peter, and he takes a sip of the bourbon. It burns in his throat. His throat is always dry now, and at one time this would have soothed it, but not anymore. Not really. He wants something else. "Heard from Amy?"

"No. She used to e-mail me constantly, but she fell out of touch. Probably busy. Did you know she got married last year?"

Peter nods and takes another sip of the Beam. "Yeah, I did. Funny, the three of us, just trying to live the way we did. Moving on, like some stupid sitcom."

"You've changed," says Charley, and Peter turns around. He wants to laugh.

"So have you," says Peter, and he takes a step over to Charley. He finishes the bourbon with a quick shot, and licks his lips, tasting the burn. It might be cold, but the burn is hot, and he likes that heat.

"Want another?" asks Charley, standing, holding his hand out for his empty cup.

"Nah," says Peter, and he puts down the glass.

"Really?" Charley sounds amazed. "Gave up for the most part?"

Peter shrugs. "It was something that was taken from me."

"Taken from you?" Charley asks, frowning. He's still holding the bottle of beer, and Peter watches the perspiration on the glass as it rolls down from the long, smooth neck. When he looks back up at Charley his old friend is confused, maybe a little worried. "Things didn't work out, I take it, with your last girlfriend."

Peter chuckles. The sound is dark, rumbling. "No. No it really didn't."

"I'm sorry."

So is Peter. "So, where's your vampire stuff? Got weapons hidden in every nook and cranny now, just in case?" he looks about for a crucifix and doesn't see one. "Stakes in the knife drawer, gun beneath the cushions, cross under your pillow?"

"No," says Charley, shaking his head. "That's why I live in an apartment. I couldn't really have the stuff stashed about and have a normal life. It would be tough to explain that to any potential girlfriends. This way, the only vampire coming in is one I invite personally, and we both know that's not going to happen."

Peter laughs. "I thought that way too." He looks around the room again, and his gaze lingers on the window behind Charley's back. The lights from the streets and buildings turn the window into a sort of mirror, and Charley's reflection is looking back at a blank room. "So you really don't have any of it anymore? None at all?"

"In storage I do," says Charley, and something seems to occur to him. "Hang on. What do you mean, _thought?"_

Peter walks over, his steps finally unrestrained and fluid, and now Charley looks worried, but he doesn't smell like fear. Not yet. That blood pulsing so red and hot and _wet_ beneath that thin little membrane is still only working its rounds at eighty beats per minute. No, he's just confused, and he still smells only like Charley. Peter always imagined his scent would smell like warm sheets, and hot summer afternoons, and something else, sweet like honey. The reality is better. It's a mixture of something mouth watering and delicious, and something that makes him hot and bothered. Something that makes him want to _fuck._

"You saved my life once, Charley," says Peter. He cups his face, strokes his cheeks.

"Peter, what's gotten into you?"

A piece of him means what he says next. "I wish you could have saved me again."

He kisses him like he's always wanted to, like he's dreamed of ever since the kid showed him what it was like to stand up against your fears and do what's right. There's still enough humanity left in him for that. Even though Charley is nervous, his hands are on Peter's hips, unresisting, and he's kissing back.

And _oh,_ Charley's heart just takes off. It's flying now, but not from fear. Not yet. He's kissing him so hard, like something's broken inside of him, and he's warm to the point of _burning_ against Peter's skin.

Another memory, human and murky, finds him. He can remember the last time he and Charley kissed like this. He'd been only a little drunk, and Charley had been warm and sexy in his arms, needy, moaning. It was just after he and Amy went separate ways, just after Charley graduated and was going away to California for university and leaving Peter alone in his fucking flat. He'd had to kiss him. They'd spent the night together between satin sheets, and in the morning they said their good-byes.

Their promises to try something out at Christmas fell through - Peter went back to London for the holiday, Charley's mom went to California, and their lives drifted apart. Even in the times later on when they got together, that night was something never mentioned. They both had girlfriends, and even though Peter would have ignored that he hadn't, for Charley's sake. So he'd been left to want him for five fucking years until this moment. Even when his heart stopped ticking and everything became _cold_ he'd wanted him.

There is a slice of pain in his gums as his fangs slide out. Pulses of warmth coming from Charley, from his pounding heart, make Peter's throat burn with thirst. Most of his victims start like this, warm and pliant in his hands, before they realize what he is, and the thought makes him hard, makes him excited as he remembers the last one. Charley's hands squeeze, his tongue delves into Peter's mouth.

He hears Charley gasp in pain, and along with the pheromones and the millions of other scents that Charley has there's the scent of adrenaline, of panic mixed in with it all. And there's that taste, that velvety red, hot taste that sets his throat on fucking _fire._

He pulls away, and Charley's head falls back against the glass.

"Ow," Charley hisses, and there's blood in his saliva as he pokes his tongue out. "Must've bit my tongue," he says, then wipes at his forehead. "Jesus, where did all this come from? Not that I mind," Charley laughs, but its weak. "I'm worried though. I mean, you're not going to tell me you've got cancer or something, are you? You're acting strange."

Peter grins. His fangs are still there, and Charley can see them now. There's no hiding it. "Am I?"

The colour drains out of Charley's face and _there it is,_ the scent of fear. He can still hear his heart, and it had been beating so hard with arousal. Now it was beating with a different emotion. One that Peter likes. He'd already had a taste of that scent with an unfortunate girl in a back alley just before dawn, but he wants it again. This is Charley's scent, and it's so much better than one more nameless dead body. One that makes that mad little voice in the back of his head cry.

"Hello, Charley," he says, still grinning, unable to stop because while the kissing is good, sliding his teeth into that milk-white throat will be so much better.

"Peter, what the _fuck?"_

Peter presses up against him, wrapping one arm around Charley's shoulders. With his free hand he strokes his cheek. "Guess what," he whispers in Charley's ear, unable to stop a mad little giggle. "Jerry had _friends."_

Peter grabs Charley's shirt, turns, and pins him to the floor so fast he doubts Charley was even aware of the movement. The only thing stopping him from cracking his head open is Peter's fingers, wound in his curls. Charley yells, and Peter lets go, lets his head hit the laminate flooring. He's breathing deep the scent of Charley's rushing blood, savouring the staccato of his rapid beating heart. Charley's eyes are so wide, so full of disbelief.

"You can't be," he says, disbelieving, struggling, pushing himself backward and away from him. "Peter, you can't!"

"Is it so surprising?" Peter tilts his head, watching the beat of Charley's pulse in his smooth neck, imagining what it's going to taste like when he finally gets to sink his fangs into that delicious skin. "When I woke up it was all voices," he says. "Their voices. Now they're gone," and he grins, and wonders if Charley knows what he's done. How he killed them all, one by one. Tore them to pieces and left them in the sun to burn. Something in his eyes tells him _yes,_ he can guess.

Charley's hands are digging into his arms, trying to scratch him with his fingernails, but Peter can barely feel it.

"Like a little kitten," he mocks, and presses a little harder.

"W-when?"

Peter sighs. Knows what he means. "Oh. About a month after you and I met for our last little get together," he licks his lips. "They came to me, three of them. I was just running to the store for some fucking cigars." He strokes his face. Charley seems mesmerized by him and flinches a little from the contact. "The next thing I knew I was locked in a room somewhere. And they took their sweet time with me."

He can still feel their sharp fangs slicing through his neck, his arms, through fucking _everywhere_ so easy, like knives through butter. Slashes of wet pain, over and over, probably for days, and he wants to just fucking die the entire time, crying, expecting Charley to appear in his stupid body armour wielding a shotgun and a stake.

"And then my heart stopped. And you never came."

"Jesus, Peter," Charley starts to sit up, "I would have, if I-"

Peter's hand lashes out. It finds Charley's throat, pins him back down to the floor. It takes a lot of effort not to squeeze the life from him, to feel all those muscles and tendons and his spine _pop._ As it is, he bares his teeth. He doesn't want to hear excuses, or sense. Charley gags, and there's spit at his lip, tinged with blood.

_"Shhh,"_ he coos, and he leans in, kisses him. Tastes the blood and it's so good. Charley whimpers, the sound weak because he doesn't have any air. Peter let's go of his neck, and the boy rasps in a long breath. "Just be quiet now Charley, there's a good lad."

One of Charley's hands stretch out, trying to reach something under the couch.

"What's under there, Charley, eh?" he asks, and tugs on his arm, pulling it away.

Peter grins, reaches under there for him, and slides out a crucifix with the tip of his fingernail. He looks at it a moment, all lonely on the floor, before he pounds his fist into it so hard the laminate cracks and the cross splits into several pieces.

"Remember, Charley," says Peter as he flicks away the remains. "It only works when the person using it believes in it. You've got to touch it first."

Charley tries to twist away, but Peter's got him pinned again. "Were you going to try to kill me?"

Charley glares. "You'll just kill me, and kill more, if I don't."

"Can you kill me?"

He lets go of his shoulders and stands, grabbing Charley's shirt, and pulls him up too. Charley tries to twist away, but Peter just drags him closer, draws Charley into his body, and wraps his arms around him. Charley flinches, but can't move. "You already killed one of your friends," says Peter, nuzzling the spot just under Charley's ear. "Can you kill me too?"

Charley tries to pound his fists into his chest, but the blows are dull and meaningless. His eyes are squeezed shut, and there are tears starting to trace down his cheeks.

Peter's grip tightens, knows what Charley's seeing. Peter watched on the CCTV camera while he hid in his panic room, so many years ago. Watched Charley kill his one-time best friend, and knows that while Charley is strong, he's not strong enough to do it again. He might have been a brave motherfucker, letting Peter light him on fire and tying himself to a burning vampire, but he still hides, and will always hide, from that dark piece of his past.

_"Just forget,"_ Peter whispers in his ear, stroking the back of his head, and Charley shivers. Unable to resist, he makes a small cut on Charley's cheek with one long thumbnail, and watches a bead of blood well up and run down to his chin, almost like a tear. The predator in his mind delights in the small gasp of pain. He runs his tongue along the rivulet, and the taste sings to him. "Don't you remember that night with me? How good I made you feel?" Charley whimpers in response, and Peter can feel the slightest pressure on his thigh as Charley's body responds to the memories of that night, moving away from the well of guilt left over from Ed. "I helped you forget her. I can help you run away from the darkness in your head."

Charley's eyes look needy when Peter meets them next. He strokes Charley's cheeks, enjoys the warmth of them, the _humanity_ in those perfect gray-green eyes. He can see the desperation that he hides from everyone, all the time. The desperation that made him run across the country just to forget.

"The Peter I know wouldn't want to be like this," says Charley, softly. "Is that what this is about? Do you want me to stake you?"

Peter shakes his head. "No. My survival instinct has always been one of my strongest traits," he says. "You know that. I've got no desire to die. Maybe if you'd found me earlier, but certainly not now. I'm well beyond hating myself."

"Then are you here to kill me? To t-turn me?" Charley's voice is full of bitterness.

"I don't know," he says. It's true enough. His head is empty but for that one bit of conscience, and it's peaceful like that. He doesn't know if he wants anyone else in his head again, even if it's Charley.

Charley snorts, a derisive sound.

Peter starts moving his hand down, pulls on the small of Charley's back until his groin is pressed up against his. He rolls his hips, smiling at the flare of heat from Charley's cheeks as he blushes.

"I said I had voices, a will in my mind. And sometimes, when I'm calm enough, this mad little voice comes back to me. Whispers." He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath, and the voice is there. "It's starting to get so quiet. And it keeps on saying your name."

Charley's hands are touching his face. Peter opens his eyes. "So you are still in there."

Peter swallows. A piece of him wants what it always wants - to smell fear, to sink his teeth in, to let loose and cause mayhem.

"I've got no gentleness left," says Peter. "None."

"That's not entirely true," Charley's voice is soft now. "If it were true you wouldn't have stopped to talk, and I'd be dead by now."

He lets out a long, slow breath. "I came here because I need you, Charley," he says. He leans in again, unable to help himself, and runs his tongue along the trail of blood to the cut on his cheek. Charley winces, but doesn't try to struggle away again.

"Why?"

Peter pauses, licks his lips. "I'm not sure you want to hear that."

"Tell me."

"I was their toy, for a bit. Kept in a cellar, doing what I was told. Getting fucked, and fucking others. They brought me my meals, and left them with me. I tried to fight the hunger, but I'd snap every time. And all that time, plagued with thoughts of you. Even after I escaped, I couldn't forget you. Couldn't forget how good you felt underneath me, the breathy cries you made when you came."

"Peter," Charley chokes, "I'm sorry."

He nuzzles back to Charley's throat, runs his tongue along the curve of the muscles, exposing the smooth white flesh beneath the blood he's caused. He can feel the rapid beat of Charley's pulse, and he presses his lips to it. The temptation is almost more than he can control.

"Every time they thought up some new fucking hell for me, I survived because I could still remember you. A mad little voice, inside my head. I escaped for you. I tried to stay away, of course," he runs his hand slowly down Charley's back, feeling muscles tense in response, "because I know I'm _dangerous..."_ Charley shudders. "I _want_ you, Charley."

"So you're running from the darkness too," said Charley, and this time it's Charley who kisses him first, cupping his face, lips so hot against his.

Peter's body reacts before he can stop himself. He growls low in his throat, and his fingers dig into Charley's body, tugging at his shirt, and he hears the gasp of pain but doesn't think about it. He has to clench his teeth before he bites him. Charley is trying to tug him along, and Peter follows, his hands moving again – not gentle, he doesn't have that anymore, but they do not seek to hurt him, and he wonders how long he can hold off before he does.

They've gone down the hall, and then into Charley's room. The shadows are deep here, with the curtains drawn. To Charley's eyes it might be nothing but shades of gray and black, but to Peter's eyes it's the room looks like it's painted with the deepest teals and purples. It smells like Charley, and cotton, and telltale hints of sweat and dust.

He lets Charley go. The momentum carries him back, and the small, warm little human hits the bed. Peter breathes deep, and strips his shirt off. He tosses it aside before he leaps lightly onto the bed. The mattress barely jostles as he pins him down.

"I could hurt you," he warns.

"I know," says Charley, like it's old hat. "I don't care."

Peter lets out a low growl. He runs his hands over Charley's chest, feels his pectorals, and down to the soft paunch of his stomach. Charley tenses at his touch, but doesn't try to turn away. He's breathing deep, eyes glazed, small pink tongue flicking at his lips. Peter doesn't bother with taking off his shirt, and his hands tear it with a casual flick. Charley's torso is bared to him, and he leans in, running his tongue from his collarbone and over and down the centre of his chest.

It's not long before he's getting lost in him. Piece by piece, the rest of their clothes land on the floor, and they are rubbing and touching, naked, rediscovering each other. Charley's skin is so warm, and he lends some of his heat. He delights in finding a tattoo Charley has gotten. It's a meaningless pattern on his ribs, but he likes it, and finds himself returning to it constantly to worship it.

Charley's hands are like brands of fire pulling down his body. When they close around his erection he cries out. His body feels so strange. He's had sex with one or two vampires since his siring, but both occasions had been full of anger – all biting and snarling and fighting. It was as much a territorial display of domination as it was getting off. This is different. Restrained, but still sexy. It's fluid, almost easy, with that underlying edge of danger every time Peter's lips find Charley's neck.

They're kissing harder as they thrust against each other, their erections sliding together, arms tight around each other's shoulders. Occasionally Peter turns to find small cuts he has made, running his tongue along the rivulets of blood, with tantalizing tastes that make him want to go into a frenzy at the same time it makes him just want to fuck.

Charley's blood is almost taming him, and it's no wonder Jerry and all those others seemed to want him all the time. Charley smells amazing. Perhaps he is tamed, and that's why Charley isn't dead yet. The voices in his head are all but gone, and he nearly is his old self. It's glorious. So long as he has this sensual body pressed close in the darkness, maybe he can be human.

Charley's eyes keep catching his, and in the dark he can read their silent questions. He can see that night they spent together, their only night as humans, and what Peter is starts to drift a little.

It's not gentle, when Peter finds a mostly used up tube of lubricant in the bedside drawer. He get's Charley ready, but doesn't wait long. Charley's hissing with a mixture of pain and pleasure, the most delightful looks crossing his faces in lances of emotion varying from agony to the deepest desire as Peter pushes inside of him. He rolls his hips, his perceptive eyes catching each muscle twitch, admiring the sheen of sweat on him, _loving_ every drop of precum that oozes from Charley's erection, rubbing between their bodies. They never fucked last time, and he wonders why as he reaches down, wraps a cool hand around Charley's cock.

"Oh Peter," Charley's voice his breathless, his body arches up into his touch, and Peter wraps his arms around him, thrusts hard, and Charley cries out again, louder. His hands are digging into his shoulder, curls of hair wild on the pillow. His head is tilted to the side, eyes closed from the sensations, his throat bare.

Peter's jaw aches. He can feel it in his _teeth._ Can see the red hot flush in his throat, the pounding of his veins beneath that silky membrane. The shallow cut on his cheek, and on his chest, suddenly isn't enough. He needs more from him, needs more of the drug that Charley so clearly is.

"I'm sorry," some part of him says, and he leans in before he can stop himself. Peter runs his tongue along his neck before, with a spurt of saliva and a surge of desire and hunger, he sinks his teeth in.

Charley gasps and his fingers pull at his hair a moment before giving up and start to massage him. Peter expected him to react against the pain, not respond to it with a long, needy moan. He's still responding to every thrust Peter makes as he drives into him, still crying out from the friction of Peter's hand and their flexing stomachs.

Charley's taste is almost euphoric. Peter is shuddering as his thirst is sated, little by little. He isn't trying to glut himself, he purposely missed the throbbing jugular vein. It's akin to the greatest pleasure. Not even his first feeding made him feel like he did at that moment – almost like he were dying, ascending.

"Peter," Charley whispers in his ear, and that desperate word let's Peter know that Charley's nearly there. He remembers hearing it before, so many years ago, a thin whine as his body rocks against the sensation, his breaths coming in faster and faster, eyes squeezed shut, fingers curled and pulling on his hair.

Peter squeezes Charley's cock in time with his thrusts, getting deeper, more desperate, and Charley tenses up, lets out a long hiss of air through clenched teeth, and screams. Hot seed spills through Peter's fingers as Charley get's impossibly tight around his cock, and his body convulses.

Peter's mouth leave's his hot, delicious neck and he grabs his hips, driving into him. Charley's so hot around him, and on his tongue. He looks down, meets those beautiful, still innocent eyes, and comes with a shout. The voice in his head is crying out with him, in pleasure. He spills deep into Charley, wondering if this will turn him and a piece of him hopes it doesn't. Peter likes the silence in his head, with the soft little voice sated for the time being. Besides, Peter likes knowing that Charley and his lust-laced scent will be out there somewhere.

He has enough presence of mind to draw out of him slowly, and Charley hits the pillows hard. Peter isn't tired as he stares at Charley's gasping form, his narrow chest rising and falling, his heart thundering in his chest, so alive. It's beautiful.

Charley glances at him, his hand probes a moment at his bleeding neck, before it falls back and hits the white linen, palm bloody. Peter picks the tattered remains of his shirt, presses it against Charley's neck. Unable to resist he cleans Charley's palm with his tongue, humming in enjoyment, and surveys the rest of the damage.

Charley's bruised, cut in a few places, and smeared with blood. Even though he looks battered he's gorgeous - still flushed, red swollen lips, his erection softening, with glistening semen patched on his stomach.

"Am I going to wake up like you?" Charley asks, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

Peter swallows. He doesn't know how to respond. After a moment, he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I can't," he says. It would be easy, just a little cut, a little drop of blood on his tongue...

"I don't mind," says Charley, his voice getting sleepy and slow. "Expecting it, really. Isn't it what you want?"

His eyes flutter, and Charley's breathing dips, before his head slumps, and he's passed out, completely exhausted.

Peter sighs, and wishes he could make a proper fucking good-bye for once in his life.

Peter looks around the room. The state of it. He stands up and gets dressed, before pulling the blanket up and over Charley's body, and makes his way into the living room. There's more evidence of violence, of his violence. He can't leave Charley hurt, he knows that, but he can't stay. He still wants to kill him, even after running away with him into pleasure. He wants Charley to wake up, immortal, next to him. But most of all he wants Charley's blood to stay the same, and be his when he wants it.

He plans on making an anonymous call down in the lobby to the police, and steals a few quarters from the kitchen. He's not afraid of evidence, anyway. He doubts he's anything like he used to be, at least DNA wise, and knows Charley won't tell them his identity. Scribbled down in red sharpie on a small post-it note, he's left his new number, since words are useless anyway. He leaves it on the screen of Charley's laptop, hidden away where only he'll see it once the ambulances and police are done patching him up, making sure he's safe and well looked after.

Outside, back into the welcoming night, he looks back up at the mansion block, and he finds what he figures is the window to Charley's flat. He can already hear sirens in the distance as he stares up at it.

He opens his mouth, trying to think of something meaningful to say to the goddamn air, and can't, so he disappears into the shadows as the blue and red flashing lights get closer.


End file.
